The Hell Cat
by TheCrimsonBulge
Summary: When a young Khajiit finds out that his parents were murdered by Thalmor, he will do anything to take revenge. Even if it costs him everything. Will be rated M for lots of violence.
1. Chapter 1

**This is my first fanfic so be gentle. I wrote this in a hurry and so I rushed things and may not have explained as much as I should have so if you have any questions just ask. Also, in my mind Tamriel and all it's provinces are a lot larger than depicted in the games. For instance, at least in my story, going from Solitude to Whiterun might take a week or so. Seeing how this will make a lot more space in these provinces, more specifically Skyrim, which will be where my story takes place, you may see locations that are not in the game because I made them up. Not to worry, these places will still be there. Anyway, I'll stop rambling and let you read. **

**Disclaimer: All locations and characters, except those which I have created, are owned by Bethesda.**

**Prologue**

"Sateere, you must keep going. I don't think I can make it." The Khajiit fell to his knees. The arrow had struck him between his shoulder blades. The end for him was soon and he knew it.

"No! I won't leave you." The female Khajiit replied, tears beginning to well up in her eyes.

"I am badly wounded, Sateere. I would only slow you down."

"Please get up, I need you Do'biri." Sateere sank to her knees hugging a blanket with one arm and her husband with the other. "We need you."

"I'm so sorry my dear." Do'biri wrapped his arms around his wife. "Go now, I will hold them off as long as I can."

"No, please, I won't know where to go, what to do.."

"Head south to Elsweyr, we still have family there, distant yes, but family nonetheless." He coughed, drops of bloods falling to the ground.

In the distance they heard the shouts of mer. They would catch up soon.

"Sateere go. Go!" Do'biri was rising to his feet, pulling his wife up with him. He held her one last time. Nothing need be said, they would see each other again someday.

Sateere turned and ran as fast as she could, her feet gliding over the ground, arms crossed tightly across her chest clutching the bundle she held for dear life. Do'biri watched her for a few moments longer. Tears began to fall like rain from his cheeks, he knew they would catch her, he just hoped they made it a quick death.

Do'biri inhaled deeply, wiped away the blur of tears, and turned to face his death. And there they stood, five Altmer. Three wore black robes, the tallest of the three had golden leafing sewn into his robes. The remaining two elves wore armor as gold and bright as the sun. One had a bow drawn, the other was unsheathing a greatsword from his back.

The Khajiit eyed each elf, planning his attack. He was fast and may be able to take two or three down when healthy, but the arrow in his back was taking its toll on him. The elves in robes were wizards, he had seen elves just like them before when he went to market. The elf with golden laced robe was the leader he guessed. He wouldn't bother with the armored High Elves, his claws would be useless against them. His only hope was to take the leader first and hope that the shock of losing him would give his wife the time she needed to escape.

"Ready to face your punishment are we cat?" The leader said, a smirk on the already smug face of a High Elf.

"Again I will say, we have committed no crime, but if you wish me to beg for my life then you waste your time knife ears." The Khajiit grinned wickedly. " Maybe you Altmer should be more selective when choosing archers, I would have killed my target" Do'biri pointed to the arrow in his back.

He got the reaction he wanted. In one fluid motion the archer had drawn an arrow, nocked it, and pulled the bow string back to his cheek. The archer was angry.

"You die now cat!"

Do'biri moved like lightning. He ran forward slashing one of the wizard's throat with his claws. The archer loosed an arrow, but the Khajiit had seen that coming and was already spinning around the falling wizard letting the dead elf take the arrow. Do'biri turned to their leader ready to pounce, but an amored fist caught him in the head. He fell to ground, head spinning from the blow. The remaining elves rushed towards him and siezed him. They pulled him to his knees, the wizard and the archer stretching his arms to the side, their feet pressed on the back of his knees. _This is it, I failed her._

"Any last words cat?" The leader asked approaching the defeated Khajiit.

The elf with the greatsword raised his weapon high above his head, the bright golden metal seemed to glow in the sun.

Do'biri said nothing but raised his head and let out a roar that shook the leaves on the trees.

"So be it." The leader nodded at the swordsman. The greatsword gained speed as it raced toward the Khajiit's neck. Almost as quickly as it began, the fight was over, Do'biri's head rolled onto the ground. Amidst the chaos the leader had forgotten about the dead Khajiit's wife.

"Quick, after the cat bitch!" He ordered, and they plowed into the forest after her.

Sateere couldn't run anymore, she fell to her knees sobbing. She had heard the last roar of her husband. It had given her hope, he had surely killed them. Then the order came for the chase to continue from the deep, smooth voice of the Altmer leader. She gently squeezed the bundle of cloth in her arms. _I've failed him._

She heard shouting not far behind her. She turned around as an arrow flew past her face. She stood up in a panic and turned to run once more. Sateere took only a few steps before an arrow pierced the small of her back. She let out a scream as she fell to the ground, the bundle rolling out of her hands. The blanket unraveled reaveling a newbord cub, it's eyes still shut tight. The cub let out an awful cry as he rolled onto the hard ground. Sateere pulled herself across the ground, not able to move her legs anymore. He inch she moved was more pain than she could bare, but it was nothing compared to the pain she felt from not being able to protect her child. She reached out to her cub and put a finger in the palm of its hand. The cub clenched as tight as a newborn could.

She began to cry, tears pouring from her eyes. She looked up to see she was surrounded by her pursuers.

"You and your thieving husband gave quite a chase." The leader spoke, making his way towards Sateere. "Well look what we have here, a Khajiit cub. I must admit, its even uglier than a full grown one."

"No! You stay away from him, we've done no wrong to you." Shouted Sateere.

"No wrong?" the leader bent over, grabbed Sateere by her throat, and lifted her off the ground. "You and your husband are thieves, and for that you will be punished."

The cub began to cry, again. "Will one of you please shut that thing up!" the leader looked around at his soldiers, none of them moving. "Now!"

The remaining wizard walked over to the cub, curling his fingers and producing a small flame in his hands.

"P...please...d...don't hurt him. H..he's only a baby." Sateere managed to get out running out of breath as the High Elf squeezed tighter and tighter.

Malthor had heard the scream. It was a ways off but it had been loud enough to scare the elk he had been hunting. It also managed to startle his massive wolf dog, Lycan, named after the hounds of Hircine. Malthor looked at his large creature. He was part wolf, but he could not put a finger on what he was mixed with. No doubt some large furry dog of Skyrim, which was where he got the beast as a pup.

Malthor was a Nord. His long blonde, slightly gray, hair had two braids in the front on either side of his face, the rest of his hair cascading past his shoulders. He was tall for a Nord, standing at almost seven feet tall and thick with muscle. He was an intimidating sight, and when Lycan walked with him people tended to walk the other way.

"Lycan let's go." Malthor nodded in the direction of the scream. The giant dog followed, head down tail up.

They arrived upon the scene in a few minutes. Malthor grabbed Lycan by the scruff of his neck pulling him behind some bushes. He looked out to the small clearing where the Elves had the lady Khajiit surrounded. He watched as the, what appeared to be the leader, grabbed the Khajiit by her throat and lifted her in the air. He heard the cry then, and looked on the ground to see the cub, only a ball of fur. The leader said something Malthor couldn't hear but he knew what was about to happen. He saw what he figured was the wizard of the group, walk towards the cub, preparing a flame spell in his hand.

"Not today you don't." Malthor muttered to himself, reaching for the bow on his back. His bow was ebony, black as night, but it was inlaid with the ivory of a mammoth's tusk in strange swirls up and down the bow. He had leather wrapped tightly around the grip for added comfort. His bow was a little thicker than most, making it strong and able to easily pierce mail and plate.

Malthor reached for an arrow over his shoulder, quietly removing one from the quiver. He nocked it, and drew back to his cheek. He took aim at the wizard.

"Lycan, attack!" Without a second of hesitation Lycan burst from the bushes running full speed at the leader holding the Khajiit. Malthor loosed the arrow at the wizard, sending it through the elf's throat. He quickly dropped his bow and drew his steel sword from it's sheath and charged at the bowman now fumbling to get an arrow nocked. Malthor looked to Lycan who had the leader down, a firm bite on his arm. The Nord reached the bowman before he could pull the arrow back and shoved his sword through the chest of the Altmer. He pryed the sword from the dead elf and turned just in time to see the last armored elf side swinging his greatsword. Malthor jumped back, the blade missing him by inches. He ran forward as the elf brought the blade back around. Malthor met the blade with his own and forced to the ground. The elf rammed his shoulder in Malthor's chest forcing him back. He quickly recovered dodging the next swing of greatsword. The elf swung once more but he was ready for this attack. He spun backwards, the momentum of the greatsword forcing the elf to turn leaving him open for attack. Malthor leapt at this oppurtunity running in close, both hands on his sword and swung with all his might, removing the elf's head from his shoulders. He looked to Lycan who still had the elf down.

"Lycan." He snapped his fingers and the great beast came to his side.

The High Elve's robes were tattered. There were bite marks all over and blood was visible even in the black of the cloth. He managed to stand though, trying to regain some pride Malthor thought.

"Malthor? The Red Warrior?" the elf spoke.

Malthor raised his weapon slightly. "Who are you? How do you know me?"

"My name is Andrel, I was at the Battle of the Red Ring, same as you. You and a few other Nords wiped out nearly my entire unit. I managed to escape."

"So you're a Thalmor and a coward as well?"

Malthor notice the Altmer twitch with anger, but the elf kept calm, he knew he was outmatched.

"So you've been in the southern forests of Cyrodil the whole time?"

"Aye. Not much choice seeing as both the Thalmor and the Empire are after me."

"Oh yes, I forgot you were a deserter" the elf grinned.

"Maybe, but I wasn't about to bend the knee to an emperor who would submit to you elven bastards."

"Listen, if you let me go I can get you a pardon, you'll be free to head back to your homeland or even stay here if you want, just please let me go."

"I'm not about to let you go after what you did to this poor Khajiit. No matter what she's done, she doesn't deserve to be treated like an animal."

"Please, we were ordered to kill her and her husband, they stole something very valuable to the Thalmor." the elf was practically begging now.

"Did her or her husband have this item?"

"Well, now but-"

"I've heard enough then. Lycan. Kill." Malthor spoke with an unquenchable hate.

"No! Please!" The wolf dog jumped for the High Elf's throat. The elf began to scream but was cut short by the tearing of his neck. Lycan gave a low growl and bit down once more making sure his prey was dead.

Malthor sheathed his sword looking around at the carnage he and his giant beast had made. Remembering the Khajiit he ran to her, kneeling beside her. He looked at the arrow in her back. _It will kill her soon._

"Please take care of my son." The Khajiit was gasping for air now. "I will die soon, please promise me you'll take care of him."

Malthor didn't know what he would do with a child, let alone a Khajiit cub, but he said what any man in his position would say. "I promise."

The Khajiit grabbed his hand, gave one last moan of pain, and then was gone. Malthor reached up to close her eyes. He would have to bury her, it was only right to give her that last courtesy.

The cub began to cry again. Malthor looked around for something to hold the baby in. He found a blanket and went to wrap the little Khajiit. He knelt down and picked him up. He wrapped the cub leaving only his face exposed. The baby Khajiit suddenly stopped crying as Malthor held it. He couldn't help but smile as he looked down at the newborn's face.

"It's okay little one, you're safe now."

**I will try to update this chapter, after publishing I realized I had missed a lot of errors. **


	2. Chapter 2

**Hello again, I took my time with this one so hopefully I don't find a bunch of errors I missed after I publish it HA! Anyway hope you enjoy and feel free to leave any reviews.**

The deer was just a little too far away to fire a straight shot. The Khajiit would have to take aim just above the deer's shoulder or the arrow would surely miss. He nocked an arrow onto the the string of his simple wooden long bow. He slowly drew the string back, only stopping when he reached his cheek. He took aim at deer's shoulder and then slowly begin to raise his bow until he figured he had compensated for the distance. He was about to loose his arrow when a gust of wind blowing East rushed through the trees. _Damn._

He would have to compensate for the wind or move in closer, but the Khajiit didn't want to scare away the game he had been tracking since sunrise. Midday now, the sun beat down on him as he slowly turned his bow to the left. The wind would carry it to the right. The Khajiit took a deep breath, slowly exhaled, and got ready to fire. He heard the snap of a bowstring. The deer seemed to lift of the ground when the arrow struck behind his shoulder. A perfect shot. The deer didn't take a step before it dropped. He looked to his left to the sound of the bow. There was Malthor, a huge grin on his face.

Amidst a roar of laughter, Malthor said, "Too slow, Whisk!"

_Whisk._ He had always assumed it was short for Whiskers or some house cat name like it. He didn't blame his parents though, after all they knew nothing of the traditions of Khajiits or how cubs were named. They were just simple Nords living in The West Weald of Cyrodil, just North of the border of Valenwood and Elsweyr. Strangely enough, they never had any contact with the Khajiits and very little with the Wood Elves unless they traveled to their provinces, which didn't happen often.

Whisk hadn't seen his adopted father, Malthor, sneak up on him. The forests this far North were thick and Malthor was extremely quiet for his size. Not attempting to be quiet now, the tall Nord trudged through the woods towards Whisk.

"I had him, father. You should've let me make the kill." Whisk said annoyed with how cheery the Nord was.

"If I hadn't shot him, we'd be dead of starvation by now." Malthor replied, the grin still plastered across his face. "You're a great shot, Whisk, but you need to be quicker about these things. Had that been a bandit you'd be dead by now."

"I was taking my time. Isn't that point of hunting? Enjoying the outdoors, the sunlight warming your fur, and the breeze cooling it simultaneously. The leaves rustling as birds land and take flight."

"Oh so you're a poet now are you? I only jest, son. Come, we need to get this deer to camp and quartered before nightfall." Malthor headed for the deer, but Whisk stayed behind, closing his eyes and feeling the first cool breeze of Autumn. It was days like these that made him grateful for all his parents had done for him. Malthor had never told him what happened to his real parents, he would always go quiet when he asked. Whisk didn't bother to ask anymore, they were his parents now, and if what happened to his Khajiit parents was enough to quiet the huge Nord, he might not want to know. All he knew was that he blessed by the Divines to have made his way into the Nords' lives.

"Whisk! Quit your lollygagging, lets get to it." Malthor yelled from the corpse of the deer.

Whisk snapped out of his thoughts and pushed his way through the brush to help his father.

The night was clear and bright. The moons, Masser and Secunda cascading the forest with light. A torch would be near useless on a night like this. The fire was even dimmed by the giants. It was quiet, the fauna seemed to vanish from the forest. They were there though, Whisk could feel their eyes. They had no tents on this night, there was no need. The weather was clear and both hunters would prefer to watch the sky and dream of what was beyond the constraints of Nirn. Malthor was kneeling next to the fire, a grip on the handle of a pan over the fire, the other holding a dagger he was using to flip the meat that cooked in it. The smell was intoxicating. Malthor grabbed a small wooden bowl of salt and added a pinch to the already seasoned meat.

"How much longer?" Whisk asked.

"Oh, I'd say a couple more minutes. Mouth watering, eh?" replied the Nord.

"Aye, but I meant how much longer to Skyrim?"

"Hmm, let's see. I think we're a day North of Bruma. I'd say a day and a half, maybe two."

"Where will we go once we cross the border?"

"I haven't given it much thought. It'll take us maybe a week to get to Whiterun, but if I remember correctly Riverwood is about halfway. We could stop there, rest at the inn, and then head to Whiterun. I want to get our supplies from Belathor, I hear he's real fair on his prices."

"Sounds good to me."

"Ah, it's done. Prepare for the best deer of your life, Whisk." Malthor stabbed the meat and put it onto the Khajiit's plate.

"The backstrap was always my favorite part." Whisk was grinning, ready to dig in.

They continued to talk over supper. Whisk loved to hear Malthor's stories even though he was a full grown Khajiit of twenty years. He told him the story of Alduin, the World-Eater and how the Dragonborn defeated him. Whisk was only five years old when the Dragonborn had defeated the black dragon, so he wasn't old enough to understand what was happening. He told stories of Nord heroes all throughout history. But whenever Whisk asked about The Great War and the Aldmeri Dominion, his stories took a dark turn. Malthor hated the Dominion with a passion, paricularly the Thalmor representives. He would grow angrier the longer he went on with the story. Malthor told Whisk how the Thalmor had claimed they had shut the Gates of Oblivion during the Crisis, when in actuality, it had been the Hero of Kvatch and Martin Septim.

"Those were the days when Emperors would refuse to bow to foreign rulers no matter the cost. When they would stand defiantly with their men, even in the face of Daedric lords. Now we have a coward who hides behind his walls like a whipped dog." Malthor trailed off. "That's enough for tonight, lad. Let's get some sleep, we've got a long way to go tomorrow."

Whisk laid down in his bedroll. He put his arms behind his head and gazed at the night sky. He wondered what it would be like to be a hero like the ones in his fathers stories. He imagined himself in bright, shining armor charging enemy lines on an armored horse, thousands of men at his back. The thought gave him a kind of tingling feeling all over. He smiled and closed his eyes and drifted off.

That night Whisk dreamed of battle. It wasn't the glorious battlefield he had imagined himself on. He was in a dark forest somewhere, and all around men were fighting, screaming, and dying. In his dream there were dead elves at his feet, dressed in black robes and golden armor. He looked at his claws, they dripped with blood. Dead men fell on top of dead men, forcing the warriors to climb the corpses while they fought. It was a massacre.

Whisk jerked up in his bedrolls in a panic. He looked around their camp, breathing heavily. _Only a dream. It was only a dream._

**If you read this far THANKS! This chapters a little short. I had planned on writing a longer one but it got too long so I split it. Will try to upload as often as I can.**


	3. Chapter 3

**So I've noticed that these last couple chapters may be a little boring. I feel I might put a lot of useless stuff in the story. I'm trying to help the readers grow an attachment to my characters, but I feel that I might just be boring you. HA! Anyway this story will pick up I promise. This is my latest chapter, feel free to leave a review on what you think.**

Whisk woke to a melody of rain drops on the leaves on the trees above him. The Khajiit sat up in bedroll, had a big stretch, and looked around the campsite. It was dawn and the dim light of a clouded sun was starting to work its way into the forest. Whisk looked over to Malthor who was putting things away in his rucksack. He pulled himself out of his bedroll and began to pack up as well. After rolling up his bed he attached it to his rucksack and walked over to their old red mule and slung it over it's back. They never rode the old mule, they used him to carry their supplies and whatever they harvested from the forest. He was stronger and sturdier than any horse of Skyrim.

He walked back to the tree where he leaned his bow, quiver, and his steel sword. Normally he strapped his sword to the mule, he never wore it when he hunted and he didn't have much use for it in Cyrodil. Malthor had told him about the civil war currently raging in Skyrim, the plague of bandits, and the now increasing presence of the Thalmor. He decided he might wear it today, just to be safe. His father had been teaching him how to use it since he was a child, he was good with it, almost as good as he was with a bow. With all that was happening in Skyrim he was looking forward to the oppurtunity to use it.

Whisk reached for his for his tunic and pulled it over his head. He tucked it into his black woolen pants. It wasn't cold enough to wear his heavy fur coat so he left it on the mule. He threaded his belt through the loops on his pants. Next, he grabbed his sword and attached to his belt and gave it a small tug to make sure it was secure. Lastly he grabbed his leather boots and pulled them up halfway to his knee and strapped them tight. They were a dark brown, almost black. He slung his quiver across his back, positioning it so the arrows were in reach. He picked up his bow, tugged on the string a bit and then turned to Malthor. Malthor wore the nearly the same clothing, except for a leather jerkin that laid over his tunic. His father also held his bow, black as night with ebony and inlaid with ivory swirls spreading to either end of the bow from the center. They both liked to carry their bows. They would have little competitions to pass the time as they walked, most of which Whisk won.

"Ready son?" Malthor asked.

"Aye, let's get to it." replied Whisk.

They headed North, chatting about adventures they'd shared while Whisk was growing up. They talked about their hunts in Elsweyr and the lion that would have killed Malthor had it not been for their old wolf dog Lycan, who fought the lion with a viciousness Whisk had never seen in that dog before. He had heard the fighting and Malthors screams for help and had sprinted to the scene. Malthor had been slashed by the lions claws across his chest and was losing blood. Whisk remembered how the wolf dog, nearly torn to shreds by the lion, managed to get his jaws around the big cats neck and held on giving him enough time to drag his father away from the fighting beasts. Whisk ran back to save Lycan and loosed an arrow through the lions eye. The lion had gotten the better of Lycan though, and they buried him on a hill overlooking vast grasslands.

"Poor old beast." Malthor said, fiddling with his bowstring.

"Aye, fifteen years that dog had seen, and still he managed to give that lion the fight of his life." The fight still bothered Whisk, he had almost lost his father and had watched his beloved pet killed.

"He had only seen a year when we found you, and I could tell he was a fighter then. I would bet money that if he had been ten years younger he could have killed that beast." Malthor gave a little smile.

"Do you still plan to buy a pup before we leave Skyrim?" Whisk asked.

"I believe so, if that old bastard still raises 'em or is even alive." Malthor chuckled.

"Were all the pups as big as Lycan?"

"Aye, maybe bigger. Lycan was the runt. I don't know of anyone else who bought his pups, he was very over priced but for some reason I couldn't turn that pup down. I'm glad I didn't either, best dog I ever owned."

"What was his name again?"

"Ervor if I remember right, an old Nord probably in his sixties now. He lives east of the village of Dragonstone."

"Think we'll be able to afford it?"

"Not a problem if we can take down a mammoth. We'd make a lot of money of the ivory and the beast's hide."

"I still don't know about that, father. How are we supposed to take one down, just the two of us?"

"It'll be tough, we'll need spears, and we'll definitely have to do it at night when they sleep. The mammoths are the easy part though, giants herd them and will defend their herd with their lives."

That made Whisk a little uneasy. He did not doubt their ability as hunters, but when it came game of that size, he had to wonder if they were crazy for attempting such a feat on their own. _Perhaps they could surprise one at night and kill it as quickly as father had said, but what if they spook a herd and cause a stampede, or disturb their giant masters._ Whisk shivered at the thought.

The pair continued North, being sure to avoid roads. Malthor's paranoia sometimes irked Whisk, but he understood. The huge Nord had been a great warrior in the Great War. He had killed countless elves with the black bow he carried. The Thalmor had been after him since the war, under the nose of the Emperor. Once when Whisk was younger, they had ventured into Valenwood on a hunt and had a run in with a group of Thalmor. His father, along with Lycan, killed them with a fiery hate that had scared Whisk. He knew it had been necessary, they would have died otherwise, but the act of taking a man's, or mer in this case, life had left him a little shaken. After the Valenwood incident, they ran into Thalmor two more times, once on the border of Black Marsh, but they crossed into Black Marsh disappearing in the swamps. They became very sick in the Marsh and may have died had it not been for an Argonian healer. Outsiders were advised to be prepared before entering the swampy province, but they had had no choice. The last time they ran into Thalmor, Whisk had killed one himself. It was very close to the Imperial City, so to send a message, Malthor had strung them up in a tree. Killing the elf hadn't bothered Whisk as much as he expected. He had actually had taken a little joy out of it.

It was near dusk when they decided to stop for the night. The rain was coming down a little harder than it had been so they found a tree that would at least protect them from being completely drenched.

"Got to love autumn rains." Malthor had pulled his jerkin over his head to keep his head dry.

"It's lovely." Whisk hated being wet.

They slept the best they could with the rain only coming down harder as the night went on. The next morning they continued their journey. The mountains that once seemed to be the smallest things in view, were now towering above the forest. The snowy peaks were only a few days away now. Whisk could sense they were nearing the border.

"Listen up, Whisk. We're close to crossing over into Skyrim. Now you need to know that this is dragon country, you need to be on alert at all times. The Dragonborn has made it his duty for the past fifteen years to quell this threat but occasionally one appears. We should be fine as long as we stay out of the mountains, they tend to stay on them. Also, the civil war ended about nine years ago, after about six years of bloody, all out war, it came to a stalemate. The tension is thick up here and war could spark at almost any moment. We have to be careful, Whisk, do you understand?"

"Aye, I understand." Whisk was worried now. He gripped his bow a little tighter.

They walked for a few more hours when Malthor motioned to Whisk to look at something. Whisk looked up to see smoke coming out of the trees. Whisk pulled an arrow out of his quiver and nocked it, Malthor followed suit. They tied their mule to a tree and then both crouched and made their way towards the smoke. They came upon a big clearing full of tents and fires. Whisk looked around at the people in the camp. _They're all elves._

Most of the elves were in tunics and woolen pants. He noticed some were wearing black robes and some had pieces of the nearly gold armor he had come to know as elven armor. He recognized the robes and armor. Whisk looked at Malthor, he had a scowl on his face. _Thalmor._

"We have to go, Whisk." Malthor grabbed Whisk's arm and pulled him away. They quietly inched away from the camp. When they thought they were far enough away they began to run. Whisk was a little ways ahead of Malthor when he heard him fall. Whisk stopped and turned around to see his father on the ground unable to move. He ran to his side, trying to lift up the big Nord, when a ball of green magic hit him in the chest. He lost all feeling and collapsed. He laid there for a few minutes when two tall figures walked up to him.

"Well it seems we have a couple of spies." The smooth yet wicked voice would have made Whisk cringe if he could move.

"Bind them, they will be punished when we get reach Solitude."

The last thing Whisk remembered was an armored boot racing towards his head and then blackness.


End file.
